tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82366329983764305832014-10-05T00:51:33.206-07:00RerunsKeeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-85005212851566885052010-05-07T09:43:00.000-07:002010-05-07T09:45:02.295-07:00FDK, GTB and the InternetHere I am on the Facebook. I am also on Gmail. Myspace. Blogger. Elsewhere. Think about it, I am on the world wide web and so are you. We are out there and in there, so let's all blow our minds as a team.<br /><br /> What is to become of hand-written letters, books, or any other way BESIDES THE INTERNET to send and receive information? Gosh. . .Do you remember when the only way to correspond was by use of a mailbox? And the only way to communicate was with a telephone? Honestly, who "puts the flag up" for anything other than Christmas cards?<br /><br /> I mean, LOOK at all of this. I think about my grandfather, Frederick Darwin Keeler, and how he would react if he was with us today. Pops was the most technologically-fascinated individual of his time. Granted, he stopped buying all of the "new" things prior to, oh, 1990 I suppose, but in spite of this, pops would be overwhelmed with wonder as I listened to an I-pod or as my sister edited her pictures on Photoshop.<br />“What’s that?”<br />“It’s my Ipod, Pops.”<br />“A what?!”<br />“An Ipod”<br />“What are you doing with it?”<br />“I’m listening to music.”<br />“On THAT LITTLE THING?!”<br />“Yup.”<br />“How?”<br />“I download songs from a computer.”<br />“Download?”<br /> Like I say, Pops was a wonderfully curious man and those question-and-answer sessions would last an entire afternoon, sometimes extending into dinner time. Sarah and I loved these sessions, though. We marveled at his passion for knowing and answered him to the best of our youthful ability.<br /> And now we come to Geraldine Taylor Besse, who in her time lived in Smalltown USA atop Anyrandom Hill. How would she react to "all of this internet STUFF"? Ah, Granny...a truly amazing woman. She was very involved in her community. And now, if she were still living and doing all her things for her town, she would have an email address. GTB@hotmail.com- sending, forwarding, and replying to issues regarding Old Home Day.<br /> So now I wonder how much and to what extent Granny would utilize the "www"? Furthermore, how long would the Q&A on the subject last with Pops?<br /><br />Wow.Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-75862430106067988202010-03-24T05:27:00.000-07:002010-03-24T06:00:19.060-07:00Shuffle 2To fulfill half of my promise, the next shuffle tune is "Live Wire" by AC/DC. It came on while running east-bound on Van Buren. The increasing intensity of the base guitar gave me wings, which proves the "other ways" theory regarding a certain energy drink. My per mile pace dropped nearly five minutes during this song. I also found that "Live Wire" produces in me a certain rebelliousness toward certain colored lights.Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-75757779320302415532010-03-07T16:19:00.000-08:002010-03-07T16:32:18.054-08:00We Got What We Were Promised.Saturday was a special night. Tim, Will and I took to Denver to see an aspiring alternative band out of Scotland perform. It was a real great time- everybody crowded into the small bar, offering very little room for us to move. But it's not like we really wanted to move, the music was that captivating. Funny, I can't really find any band with which to compare Jetpacks, maybe I can get away with saying Death Cab meets Phoenix. The songs bare some similarity to the melancholy mood of Gibbard's works, but have the fast-paced "uppityness" of Phoenix. That made for an extraordinary show, and we loved every minute of it.Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-85631836540270528612010-02-27T15:55:00.000-08:002010-02-28T08:16:34.895-08:00Equinox<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4qW0xrf80I/AAAAAAAAAFU/L1wPNNCOR5g/s1600-h/leaves.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 60px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4qW0xrf80I/AAAAAAAAAFU/L1wPNNCOR5g/s200/leaves.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443328933063816002" /></a><br /><br />It is hard to explain how it felt to be outside today. Every year, there seems to be that one distinctive day of change, and it does not matter whether you live in the North, South, East or West. The air takes on a different aroma, the wind shifts a little bit. It is a bit chillier, a bit cloudier. You wish you had worn that extra layer, but it is too late to go inside to get that coat or sweater. So you just sit and think. You hate the idea of going into that building to endure fifty-some minutes of lecture, and you think rather about staying outside and watching mother nature do her Autumn work. A cloud moves in front of the sun, the wind picks up, making the chill even more so. The peaks to the north have newly-fallen snow, and the sun melts what it can. Nothing really melts on the back of the peaks, for they do not see that much sun. Clouds that are dark but non-threatening move in during the late afternoon. Against the sunset, they give off a dark grey, almost black color, as they move harmlessly over campus and off to the east. Today, it seems as if a line has been crossed. It is the line that divides the mildness of the Indian Summer to the chilliness of Autumn, and there is no turning back.Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-2770004940396650332010-02-27T09:31:00.000-08:002010-02-28T07:02:14.729-08:00Shuffle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4lfyXrQVKI/AAAAAAAAAEA/4Poi_rPTwqU/s1600-h/bndry+waters.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4lfyXrQVKI/AAAAAAAAAEA/4Poi_rPTwqU/s200/bndry+waters.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442986943607493794" /></a><br />The “shuffle” setting on my ipod is fascinating. I was just starting up a ten-mile run and the first song is none other than “Laughing” by Crosby, Stills and Nash. It's not a bad tune. I went with it.<br /><br />“I thought,. . .I met a man. . .who said,. . .he knew a man. . .who knew. . .what was goin’ on” is how it begins, in a solemn tone not befitting of such an activity as running. I think more along the lines of, oh, sitting around a camp fire or painting a barn with a watercolor brush as criteria for a good CSN tune.<br /><br />Tune in next week as I tune into another song on my shuffle.Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-15548876196217590252010-02-22T07:07:00.000-08:002010-02-28T08:26:44.666-08:00Stupor- Punked Felines<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4qY_FIrtjI/AAAAAAAAAFs/FNxslV2omfk/s1600-h/lilbust.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 120px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4qY_FIrtjI/AAAAAAAAAFs/FNxslV2omfk/s200/lilbust.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443331309108442674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4qX9rX1tqI/AAAAAAAAAFc/QxnDZtNrftE/s1600-h/little+zeke.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 109px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4qX9rX1tqI/AAAAAAAAAFc/QxnDZtNrftE/s200/little+zeke.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443330185501193890" /></a><br />Memories. Good ones, dull ones, funny ones, exciting ones. This will be a funny one. It occurred when you were an age of which I am not certain and when I was ten. On a late fall evening in the comforts of a certain Clearfield, PA Best Western, two cats were under the influence. What influence, you ask? Could it be owner’s love? Chopped alewife in a saucer? Catnip? For Elferd and Maimie, it was none of the above. Those cats had something in their system that made them spiral from nuts to clumsy to just plain stupid. We Norths, tired from the long haul and needing rest, had front row seats for the upcoming show and had no choice in the matter. <br /> ACT I: The Wandering. The cats wandered every square inch of that motel room, a wandering that was slow and sluggish. Bumping into a wall, they would double back and bump into another wall. It was almost as if they were wandering to the Nutcracker tune of “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy”, but for the sake of the situation I’ll change it to “Dance of the Stupor- Punked Felines.”<br />ACT II: The Yowles. It was not until after we went to bed that the noise began. (Bed…what were we thinking?) At first, we kids were a bit startled, for it sounded as if we were being haunted by two deceased cat-souls. <br /> “Yowwwwlllllll! Yowwwwllll!” <br />Realizing what the noise was and in all frankness amused by it, we just tried to ignore it. Two hours passed and oh, how we longed for sleep. But it would not have anything to do with us. Thus we continued our lying and looking at the motel ceiling. <br /> ACT III: “Mrooowwwwwer.” “Myowwwellll” “MeyoWoWoW” There was now yodeling, yodeling under the influence of whatever the vet injected them with. On top of this they were still wandering and bumping into things. Zeke, our dog at the time, was very unlucky. His peace was shattered from two cats bumping into and climbing over his frail body. Never did he have to experience this in his twelve years living with us. Thoroughly pissed-off, Zeke snapped at the cats whenever he got the chance. All of this happened under a luminous glow of the in-shining moon. <br /> You may be wondering when the vomiting began. Well, I was getting to that. It all started ‘round one o’clock. By now Sarah, Mom, Dad, Zeke and me had abandoned all hope of sleep and were just waiting for whatever else was in store. Lying in our beds, we noticed that the yowling ceased. Yay!!! Could this mean that the show was over? Could it be? Sleep began to overcome us. Zeke began to snore quietly. The cats were somewhere else, not anywhere to be heard. All was calm on the Best Western front until we began to hear the upchucking. And you know what that sounds like, you cat owners. I needn’t put it down on paper. Let’s just say that whatever corner of the house you’re in, your head will turn to the sound and you will refuse to accept the reality of what is going down. Indeed the four of us, at that moment in the wee hours of the morning, were refusing to accept the reality. Of course, everything else started back up too, the noises and all that. So now the cats have one heck of a multitasking system going on- wandering, yowling, yodeling, and vomiting. <br /> ACT IV: If you are not already grossed out and making a conscious choice to read on, I may as well address the beds. Two beds were in the hotel room- Sarah and Mom in one, Dad and I in the other. Elferd and Maimie decided to incorporate the beds into their show, and that they did. Only in this case they couldn’t really stay ON the beds, they would hop up, walk all over us and fall off the side. Sometimes they got it in their heads to try to leap from one bed to the other (I guess they thought they had it together enough to do so). The funny thing is, the influence they were under disallowed them from completing their leaps and they would land on the floor with a thud. There were no give-ups, for the strong will of the drugged felines kept them persistent straight on till morning. <br /> And that’s the story of the stupor-punked felines. Truth is, we had to have them put under some kind of drug to keep them lax during our move from Connecticut to Ohio. Ironically, they were anything but relaxed.Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-29770217617486846902010-02-19T08:00:00.000-08:002010-02-27T10:01:11.939-08:00Haiku By a Bird.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4ld1JXX6HI/AAAAAAAAADo/F5zuSwOLGQE/s1600-h/bird2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4ld1JXX6HI/AAAAAAAAADo/F5zuSwOLGQE/s200/bird2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442984792282359922" /></a><br /><br />White something outside<br />Skies, blue tolerate clouds, grey<br />And I fly away.Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-49134051361938664332010-02-15T08:12:00.000-08:002010-02-27T10:06:03.436-08:00I Don't Think So<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4lfAESLsgI/AAAAAAAAAD4/sYDvrANja-c/s1600-h/snow+014.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4lfAESLsgI/AAAAAAAAAD4/sYDvrANja-c/s200/snow+014.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442986079408599554" /></a><br />Light flakes were falling. I could see the gentle sway of the trees with the stiff breeze. The sun was just kind of there behind a thin layer of grey clouds. Moisture was coalescing all over my cheap apartment window, on the inside. The morning was a product of the solstice.<br /> My mind told me that running might be a bad idea today, but my heart told me otherwise. I followed my heart, thinking oh, I’ll be ok.- it’s me, after all. And refusing to accept the biting cold, refusing to accept the fact that Pikes Peak simply could not be seen, I fired up the car and drove to Manitou.<br /> There wasn’t as big a turn out in Memorial Park. Roughly, I’d say there was about 50 of us showing up that morning. The leader got things underway but without the usual zest in his voice that I have grown accustomed to hearing. Usually, the opening spiel goes something like this: “GOOD MORNING RUNNERS! TODAY WE ARE GOING TO RUN UTE PASS!! LET”S GOOOOO!” But on this particular morning it kind of went like this. “Mornin. Today we are going to run up Barr Trail. . .mmhmm let’s get her done mmm” So, we thinking him as being in sort of a Carl Childers persona from the movie Sling Blade, got going.<br /> It was a minute in. I could feel something happening to my fingers. They hurt. They hurt from the air. Sometimes it’s so cold that you can guess a number for the temperature and just feel how right you are. I moved my arms fast, almost out of sync with my feet, to get the blood circulating again. It worked. Warmth gave me power. I picked up the tempo a little and stayed with the front of the pack. The regulars were there, those who were training for marathons or triathalons, and today they amounted to three including myself. I felt good, confident, even when Carl Childers suddenly blew past me. Where did he come from? I didn’t hear him. I can usually hear feet coming up into my realm. Despite how bizarre it was, the leader had to live up to his leadership. And the fact of me being a newbie wasn’t enough for me to be unaware that he always did. <br /> The up and up went. Not good, not bad, it just went. And it was pretty damn cold. The ice on the trail was in a very unaccommodating mood. I still hadn’t mikitaed the screws into my shoe bottoms, probably due to my New England stubbornness, and I pay a little bit of that price with every Incline Club experience. I could also feel my physical “red flags,” as I call them. They usually start with the pain in my left heal. The pain is not enough to render me powerless, though, and it goes away after a while. Today it did not go away. I still kept going. <br /> I made it up to the top of Rocky Mountain, where the terrain becomes generously flatter for a bit. With the flatness comes less hard running, and with less hard running comes less sweating, and with the less sweating there came more cold to my body. This time it wasn’t only in my extremities, but around my face. The sudden burst of cold also gave my nose an excuse to lose complete control of my internal fluids. Mind you, my nose wasn’t the only one to suffer this misfortune. I could hear, as if they were alive themselves, the noses of other runners completing their own unpleasant tasks. The sounds of the multiple nose blowings and snot rockets outweighed the melodic tweets of the finches. Talk about “leave no trace.”<br /> Rarely do I listen to the voices of reason when on a run. Frequently they have told me, You are going too far today, turn around. or You do not have enough energy for this. and I have shooed them away like flies. Today my attention was different. The grayness of the ski, the unfeeling in my fingers, the coldness on my face, my nose and its insistence of bringing me into my own personal hell, caused me to do a turn around. Today was not my day to make the ascent to Barr Camp. <br /> Surprisingly, the run down turned the tide. Yes it was slippery, yes I was unbelievably cold, but having fun leaping the rocks and defying gravity. This euphoria steered me out of my mood of quitting and into a mood of satisfaction. I ran just far enough this morning.Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-42558390669975512502010-01-30T09:16:00.000-08:002010-02-27T16:01:24.497-08:00Ute Pass Trail, etc.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4myTRYGXgI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/R4TXXUNMR80/s1600-h/DSC01792_0018.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/__hS9Zx1wD2c/S4myTRYGXgI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/R4TXXUNMR80/s200/DSC01792_0018.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443077668805697026" /></a><br />We met at Memorial Park. This would be my second meeting with the group, only this time Barr Trail was not on the agenda. Today was the day for running the Ute Pass Trail, and I was stoked as I am before any run. Matt gave his speech, and off we went. We were another pack of a hundred or so Paul Reveres, and I am still convinced that if we hollered “The Redcoats are coming!” some of the locals of Manitou Springs would get overly excited. Maybe I’ll try that next Sunday. <br /> The Ute Pass Trail, unlike Barr Trail, winds in a northerly direction from town. You reach the trail head almost the same way as if you were running to the incline itself, except for the right turn. The entrance is something of a joy as it winds around a hillside revealing Colorado Springs to the East. I beheld the view for only a short time until a hill started. And it was a whopper. I did a tempo on the way up, eased up on the crest, and cruised down the other side. It was like this for a few more miles- rolling hills and a lot of aged ice that I had to contend with. I’ve developed the habit of running down slippery trails in a zigzag fashion to keep better control, which seems to be working pretty well. <br /> I got used to the up and down until US 24 came along. It had to be crossed, and anybody who lives in Colorado Springs would tell you that this is no country road. It is a two-lane divided highway that winds up Ute Pass itself with ridiculous traffic. So, in order to cross this Rocky Mountain Auto-Bahn, you have mere seconds to act. There is no time to tarry, you got to scoot yourself across with your spirits high. I took a deep breath, hauled ass, and made it. <br /> With my heart rate still racing from the road crossing, I was back on the trail. It was a bit different this time, as this section switch backs up a foot hill and plateaus into a deep coniferous forest of Ponderosa Pine and the occasional Lodge Pole. There was a lot of ice here, and I lost traction on several missteps. Luckily though- I had no bruises. I have always been curious about Waldo Canyon, which was where I was at that moment.<br />The ascent out of the small canyon was another series of switchbacks and not too intense. As soon as I came up on the rim, another view of Colorado Springs came into focus which I couldn’t help but love. From this point on, it was a downhill joy ride on two feet. If you blog followers read my first entry, you know that I enjoy the down hills. The descent was just peachy- I used the gravity to leap over small rocks while in an all out sprint. I will say though, that by this time the chilly wind was really blowing, blowing, blowing crisp coldness against my face. The wind would do this for the rest of my run.<br /> At the bottom was US 24 and it had to be crossed, again. This time though, the crossing wasn’t that nerve-racking. My only issue was a wind blown face, dry with remains of free-flowing fluids that once resided in my nose. Tissues are an essential on a windy trail run, lesson learned. <br /> The re-crossing of the highway revealed a junction of two trails, and shamefully I do not remember the name of the trail I took. What I do remember, though, was that this leg of the run was most strenuous. It just went up, and it seemed to never stop. There were no switchbacks, and the trail was deep snow. On the UP side though, the sun was shining brightly, the winds died down, making for some comfort. By this point, as I was running, I was realizing my failures of checking the Incline Club website as to how long this run actually was. If this trail was leading where I assumed it was, then that meant that there was still plenty of miles of adventure to be had. <br /> The Fremont Experimental Forest, interestingly enough, is the site where many species of trees were planted years ago. The whole purpose of this planting was to see how many species could actually endure life in an alpine environment. (http://www.skyrunner.com/ppcourse.htm) Ironically, the experiment revealed that the only trees that could survive were in fact the native ones! At any rate, the trail wound through this experimental forest and the remnants of buildings where the research took place could be noticed. Trail runs are good for that occasional bit of history learned during the jaunt.<br /> By now, Barr Trail bid me a how-do. For a good hour, with the company of a helpful guide who has run this 19-mile course several times before, I have been running up and around the tops of Rocky and Manitou Mountains, and through the experimental forest, still feeling a bit of cold wind against the face causing there to be no let up of those internal nasal fluids from flowing out. There just comes a point, though, when giving a shit becomes a figment of imagination. I was ready just to be done, and Barr Trail would slowly lead me to that reality. Goings were a bit rough on the descent, and I had not screwed my shoes per the advice of many other Incline Club members. It was a different type of ice, what I call dirt-ice, where dirt and dust cover the freeze to where you just don’t notice and think that you’re running on the normal ground. Like I say, it was rough but there were railings that helped me out. <br /> I think it was near 1:00 in the afternoon when I finally made it back to Memorial Park. If it hadn’t been for my guide I probably would have lost my way and as a result traveled on the easy, painless path that many of the smart and mentally sound runners chose to take. But some people, like me, just sort of treat each trail run as if it were a fruit, a fruit that is rich with sweet juices of adventure. Blindly, we try to extract great quantities of this adventurous fruit juice until there is none left. When that happens, our run is over.Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8236632998376430583.post-49731616931567669812010-01-23T08:52:00.000-08:002010-01-23T08:53:28.860-08:00Barr Camp<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNICHOL%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="State"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="City"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Memorial Park. Here congregates the Incline Club, a running group of 100+ who specialize in hills, mountains, anything with- well, an incline. It was my first time running with such a group. Taking a look around, I noticed the groups within the group; there were the novices, the intermediates, the advanced, and the hard-corers. And then there was me, the newbie, the only newbie, it seemed.<span style=""> </span>By the end of today, I would be the newbie no more.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> Thus it begins. Like a hundred or so Paul Reveres, we take to the streets of <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Manitou Springs</st1:city>, <st1:state st="on">Colorado</st1:state></st1:place> as if to let something be known amongst the locals. Not that the Redcoats were coming, that's for sure. Rather that we, the Incline Club, were coming and that quite strongly. We ran through the roundabout, we charged up Ruxton, and finally set our sneakers on the natural dirt of Barr Trail. And up we went. And up. Switchback after switchback, we runners experienced the change. It was a change in air and scenery, and of ourselves. Some of us, myself included, stopped for a second and looked down upon <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Colorado Springs</st1:place></st1:city>. We realized, by beholding this marvelous view that our many conveniences were abandoned for a while but would surely be there when we got back... It seemed to never end. Breathing was getting harder with the climb in altitude, thus making it harder to run, but yes, like the crazy runners we were, we continued our little Sunday morning jaunt.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We eventually came to Barr Camp.<span style=""> </span>The turn-around.<span style=""> </span>A little hut nestled in mountain pines, Barr Camp serves as a half way rest stop where the runner, or hiker, can delight in hot chocolate or home made energy bars.<span style=""> </span>Indeed, some runners took ten here.<span style=""> </span>But others, myself included, just sat for a minute, stretched, and started running down. <span style=""> </span>And we RAN.<span style=""> </span>With gravity being on our side, we were unstoppable.<span style=""> </span>We trail blazed that Barr Trail and heaven help the upward hiker who was in our way.<span style=""> </span>To run down an icy trail safely, the rhythm has to be such that the foot just taps the ground, not giving it enough time to slide.<span style=""> </span>Achieving the rhythm can be tough, but when you do you are a trail running god.<span style=""> </span>The thrill is just that intense.<span style=""> </span>With the sun of high noon shining, the Incline Club made it back down to Memorial Park without a scratch.</p> <span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;;"><span style=""> </span>What a fun morning.<span style=""> </span>I can hardly wait for tomorrow, Sunday, when we run the Ute Pass Trail.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></span>Keeler26.2http://www.blogger.com/profile/04322474400048937003noreply@blogger.com0